Virginia Woolf was on to something, but I think the scarce commodity for most women (and men) is not private space in which to write, but time. Perhaps we need a sequel: An Hour of One's Own. It's the end of a long day, and all I want to do is knit together some threads of my life that feel a little wild and frayed, but that's not true, all I really want to do is sleep.

At the close of a long summer as the only pastor on staff, (senior pastor on sabbatical), I am realizing once again that pastors are called to live very accessible lives. My recent getaway to the beach was enough to help maintain a basic level of sanity, but I am emotionally tired.

This summer has not been one 80-hour week after another, as ministry can sometimes be. I was careful to pace myself, and we were also blessed to have few pastoral emergencies. Still, whether it's for 40 hours or 80, a pastor's job is to be available--available to the young woman who walked in off the street, hunched over with grief over accidentally running over a stray dog; available to the woman with the empty nest and impending job transition; available to the sick, the fretting, the high-maintenance, the overjoyed-and-have-to-share-the-news-with-you even-though-you've-hung-the-Do-Not-Disturb-sign-on-your-office-door. And so, one week before my colleague returns, I find myself preparing for a funeral this weekend--my first.

Would it surprise you to know that pastors inwardly groan when they hear of a death in the congregation and the impending funeral? It's true. The groan is minimized if we know the person well, and either way, by the time we meet with the family it's just a tiny internal pout. Incidentally, we feel also immensely humbled, privileged and honored to walk with a family during the transition. But we're human, and we like our Saturdays as much as the next person.

It's a parable I suppose--death does not wait for a convenient time. Death does not care that my child-care provider is on vacation. And if that's true for me, it's even more so for the family--conversations were in progress, plans were being hatched, wars being waged and wounds being tended when their Nana died. And those conversations and plans and wars and wounds will go on, they'll just be smudged somewhat by the heavy hand of grief.

And in the self-pitying confines of my mind, I can take issue with the timing. "I'm tired, dammit, and not in the mood to deal with the residual grief issues that always come up when helping others with their grief." But there will be time for rest soon enough. The time to reflect will come. I know this, and when it happens I'll be ready. But for now, I light a candle, set out some books, make sure the tissues are nearby, and wait for the family to arrive.

And marvel that I get to do this.